by Robin Farmer
Then Malcolm, my fiery, intelligent, and brave hero whisks me away me on a ninety-minute trip. I watch, mind blown. Based on the book, I already knew the story. That’s not what matters. In this crowded room, it’s just Malcolm and me. He’s alive, wowing crowds and angering critics. He pumps me with pride and wonder until I get kicked in the guts seeing him dressed in all white and lying soulless in his coffin. Like Silly Putty, my feelings are easily pulled in many directions during the viewing.
When the lights come on, other people wipe their eyes, too. Daddy pats my back. His face says he knows what I’m feeling.
“You, okay?”
I sniffled. “I can’t imagine knowing I’m going to die and still trying to make a difference every day.”
“I’m sure brother Malcolm felt fear. Courage is about being fearful and still doing what you have to do.” Daddy rubs his eyes, yawns, then sits with his head in his hands. I guess that’s how he’s buying the ring—with all of his overtime.
I write “courage” in my book and fret about the lack of rhyming words. Throat clearing makes me look up. I’m blocking everyone in. I nudge Daddy, who briefly dozed.
“We’re sorry, good people.” Daddy jumps up embarrassed. We shuffle out the row toward the nearest exit door.
Outside the rain and high wind pulls my umbrella inside out. Because rain shrinks my hair like nobody’s business, I’m so preoccupied with protecting my hair with my notebook that I slip on a patch of leaves. Daddy catches me before I tumble.
“One reason the season is called fall,” he says. Opening the car door, he smirks.
“Sorry, I was thinking about how great a writer Alex Haley is. That documentary wouldn’t exist without his book.” I spill inside and reach over to unlock his door.
“True. Hellava writer.” Daddy dries his face with his hanky. “But so are you. Pumpkin, who you gonna write a book about? ’Cause you got the chops.”
Daddy has a way of complimenting me that makes me feel good deep down into my corpuscles. While driving to Uncle Duke’s, we discuss the old Malcolm who viewed whites as devils versus the new Malcolm who rejected those beliefs. Daddy changes into his SEPTA uniform when we get there.
Daddy finds out he got reassigned to a hilly route in the northern part of the city. He frets over his assigned trolley, a known lemon. I use some fast talking mixed with pleading to keep him from having Uncle Duke drive me home.
On the way to the depot, we resumed talking about Malcolm.
“So the house slaves did in Malcolm?”
Backing into a parking spot, he nods. “With help from the Man,” he says. That’s adult code for the establishment. Charlie is another code, as in “don’t act the way Charlie expects you to.” Fooling the Man and his cousin Charlie lives in my brain much like the command “no babies unless married.”
“Self-hating Negroes can be the worst. Some of us believe the white man’s ice is colder,” Daddy says, cutting off his engine. He gestures to the convenience store across the street from the depot. “Get me a pack of gum and whatever you want.” He hands me two dollars.
By the time I board the trolley, Daddy and several men are holding a spirited debate about the match between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs, which everyone in the free world watched. Mom and I agreed the match was dumb. Billie Jean was nearly half Bobby’s age. I won a $5 bet against Daddy.
Wanting no part of their conversation, I head for the middle of the trolley to write in peace. I hunt for a leather seat without any rips spilling its yellow spongy guts.
“You all right back there?” Daddy asks.
“Yes, I just want to work on something.”
“My daughter, she writes poems when she rides with me.” Daddy puffs up. The two men near him, one Black with a mustache and the other bald and white, smile at me then continue railing against feminists.
Two young white women with waist length hair sit across from me. They eye my hair, but don’t ask to touch it. Good. I’m not in the mood. I open my notebook to work on a poem I felt coming on since Billie Holiday’s first note. I write: “Lies in the Bible.”
The words feel flat on the page. I think about our conversation in the car and the voices around me fade. No one believes it, but sometimes I just push the pen and the words appear. The sensation is like biking down a steep hill—it’s fun as long as I hang on and don’t stop too soon. I write:
He left us pining for his greatness, longing for his voice
Hurt by misguided people who robbed us of our choice
of a great man unwilling to break, but so willing to grow
A realistic role model, one every Black student must know
He educates with a global reach and challenges my mind
His words of truth and pride, help me see I was once blind
To my power, to my story
To my history, to my glory
I cried today that he died at the hands of Black men
The kind like crabs that pull you back down again
Let’s be real family, why can’t we see
We are sometimes our own worst enemy
I squint at the page, as the trolley rattles. Close, but not entirely there yet. I add a tentative title: “Wake Up.” A smile bubbles up for my handiwork, and then the silence registers. Looking up, the men near my father sit on the edge of their seats watching Daddy pump away on the emergency brake, and we’re not slowing down.
Every trolley has three sets of brakes, which I learned one winter day when the electrical brakes and track brakes failed. To slow us down that afternoon, he used the sander, which sprays sand on the undercarriage to increase traction.
Out the front window, businesses whip by as we pick up speed barreling downhill. At the bottom of the drop, a line of cars waits at the red light. We’re maybe twenty seconds away from a collision.
I’m making the sign of the cross when Daddy says something low to the men. He rings the gong then faces us.
“Roberta, everyone, please get down behind the seat and hold on tight. Brake troubles. I got one more option.” He leans over his seat to open the front doors.
The women near me exchange panicked frowns then huddle behind the seats while the men yank off seat cushions. I refuse to crouch until I see Daddy’s plan. To my horror, he moves toward the steps of the open doors, and, gripping the railing, leans out and looks down at the track.
“Daddy!” I choke out in shock. Not only may we collide with a vehicle or two, the trolley could jump the track.
The mustached man feeding cushions to Daddy whips around. “Sweetheart, we’re not going to let your father get hurt. Sit down.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Daddy’s fate lies in the hands of strangers. I step into the aisle and grab onto an overhead strap to keep my balance as the trolley slides downhill fast. Daddy tosses cushions right and left. But the seats fail to jam the wheels; they just bounce off the trolley and whiz past the windows.
“Get down now.” The mustached man’s voice drips with authority. I obey, bending low behind the seats, hands pressed, fear hammering my heart.
“Dear Lord,” I pray, “we need a miracle.”
Something under the trolley catches and drags. We’re slowing down. Clearly God still hears me. Yay! I peek as Daddy races up the steps toward me. The men follow.
“Hold on, we’re going to have impact,” Daddy says, then he crouches next to me. A few seconds later, a big thump rocks us as metal grinds and glass shatters. The trolley finally stops after ramming into a double-parked car. Smoke fills the air. Outside someone screams.
I hang up the phone and struggle to open the folding doors of the raggedy phone booth at the edge of the gasoline station. Uncle Duke is coming to take me home while Daddy waits for a tower trolley.
Half a block away, several cop cars with flashing lights block the entrance to the intersection. Two officers reroute backed-up traffic, and two bulkier ones talk to Daddy. Their body language troubles me. Both cops stand wide-legged. On
e has his arms folded across his chest, and the other has his head cocked.
I cross the street and head back to the accident scene, praying Daddy will not lose his job. Seeing how the passengers huddled around him and patted his back and shook his hands, he shouldn’t. Plus, no one is yelling “whiplash.” Daddy said that’s what some passengers immediately yell whether injured or not.
A cold drizzle falls, but I’m not worried about my hair. Just my father. Up ahead, another officer jots notes while talking to the two men who helped with the cushions. When I get within earshot, they stop talking and watch me approach.
“Roberta, right?” asks the Black guy. “You okay? Need a ride?”
“I’m fine, my uncle is picking me up. Thank you.”
“That’s his kid,” the other guy says.
The cop nods at me, and I keep walking. When I’m close enough to hear Daddy’s booming voice, I prep myself for a scolding.
“I have to say that I was just about sick when the sander didn’t work. These leaves are treacherous on the track this time of year.” Daddy gestures to the trees lining the street. He spots me and frowns. He told me to wait at the phone booth.
But I need to make sure the cops eyeballing me now know Daddy is a hero. As Mom-Mom says, I’m here to bear witness.
CHAPTER 13
I scrawl a big X across today’s date in my copybook calendar, marking the third week of Project Keep Cool with Sister. She’s at her desk calling us up one by one to return our report cards. On the surface, where I live these days, if I had graded myself, I’d get A+ for getting along with Sister since the fight. If I weren’t a fake pretender, I’d have an F like she gave me in conduct and effort.
Opening my report card, the offensive grades stare back in Sister’s perfect cursive. Suspension meant automatic Fs in those two non-subject areas, which still kept me off the honor roll for the first time since second grade. Good thing the trolley miracle occurred because this latest punishment from her for telling the truth would have made me flip out.
Zeroing in on the comment section, above Mom’s signature, Sister wrote in red ink: “Roberta’s classroom demeanor is more nuanced and thoughtful.” Translation: “She keeps her big trap closed. Hurray!”
Sister summons me. She checks Mom’s signature and smiles. “Keep up the good work and you’ll be back on the honor roll.”
Jeez, wonder why I’m not on it now?
Daddy says my face tells everything straight with no chaser. I’m an open book. Not lately. All Sister Elizabeth sees is a blank face. I got that on lock. Christmas gifts are on the line. Back at my desk, I snicker at how it’s at home where I really flunked conduct and effort. Before the trolley accident, I fought any effort Mom made toward acting nice. At least my limited responses cut down on arguing. Only the good weekly reports from Sister Excrement worked in my favor and kept the allowance coming.
At school, I’m all drama mama, fooling Sister big time. And because I pretend like I don’t despise Sister or think she’s lower than pond scum, she treats me like a human being instead of a dark mistake.
A few times, she had me sell pretzels in class, a job usually reserved for her pets. It’s a cool gig that involves trust since I count pretzels and collect the nickel payments.
“Roberta, collect the homework,” Sister Elizabeth says.
“Yes, Sister,” I chirp. Students forward their papers to the person in the first seat. Handing me papers, a smirking Geoffrey mouths, “Brown noser.” He whispers, “You’re as useless as a nun’s nipple.”
I scurry away, hoping Sister won’t demand he repeat what he has said. Geoffrey can bad-mouth Sister all he wants. My guns will not be loaded anytime soon. Yes, Sister has been buddying up to me, and I’m all about a truce. I’m real clear about why I want one. Sister, not so much. I don’t understand her at all. How can she treat me with sweetness now and such hellish scorn weeks ago? Where did she come from? Who raised her? She is such a mystery.
Earlier, when I ran back upstairs to fetch my umbrella out of the closet cubby hole to keep my Afro shrink-proof on the way to lunch, her singing spilled out into the hallways. I stood, trancelike, feeling each note of her version of “Yellow Bird,” a Caribbean song we learned in fifth grade.
Sister Elizabeth doesn’t sound like any off-key nun I’ve ever heard. Her throaty voice rivals the choir ladies in Mom-Mom’s church, where ushers dress like nurses and people wearing their best get the spirit and dance in the pews or fall out on the floor.
“Those women can sang,” Daddy said when we attended on special occasions. “They make a brother step in here every Sunday morning after partying all night.”
Daddy was right as usual. That tambourine-backed singing, along with soulful sermons, reached deep inside and settled in, compared to my church’s high-pitch and dry warbling and sleepy Gospel readings and homilies. Aside from the impromptu boogeying freaking me out, Mom-Mom’s small storefront church pulled me closer to God than mine. Sure, our huge church offers jaw-dropping beauty in spades, from life-sized marble angels and museum-like columns to enormous stained-glass windows and an altar with real gold. But I spend more time twisting in the pew admiring its beautiful sights than getting anything out of priests reading with all the excitement of dial tones.
“Close your textbooks,” Sister Elizabeth says, taking the papers from me. Her cheeks arch toward . . . a smile. “I am astounded by the quality of last night’s homework and your decorum all week,” she says to the class. “So you have the rest of this period to spend in free time. Just do it quietly.”
I raise my hand. Sister nods.
“Can we sing ‘Yellow Bird?”
The class murmurs in agreement.
“I love ‘Yellow Bird.’ That was my favorite song in fifth grade!” volunteers Donna.
“Can we use the maracas?” asks Stephanie. “I know where Miss Dillon keeps them.”
“‘Yellow Bird’?” Sister seems puzzled but pleased by our request. “That’s one of my favorite tunes, too, but don’t you want to sing something more contemporary?”
“‘Yellow Bird,” several students say in unison.
Her eyes sparkle at our enthusiasm.
“Okay, settle your horses,” she says, laughing with ease. Even her laughter, wiggles of ear joy, is musical and as gleeful as her glorious singing. “You young folks never cease to amaze me. Know-it-alls one second and,” she scans the class, “sweet kids the next. Get the box of maracas.” She claps her hands. “Let’s travel to the islands through song, shall we?”
The vibe from Sister is crazy cool and we dig it. She beams from the inside.
Her brother must be doing better, I thought. “Sister, can you sing it first?” I ask. “Please, pretty please.”
Chuckling, Sister points to her high stool nestled in the corner next to the locked supply cabinet. Geoffrey is up and heading toward it before Sister can ask, trying to muscle in on her good graces. He carries it to the front.
Sister perches on the stool, adjusts the folds of her habit. Eyes closed, she takes several deep breaths and I lean in.
The stirring voice that fired up my soul earlier pours out. I shake my maracas up and down, pretending they’re drumsticks and I’m striking a tin drum to produce a calypso beat. The swishy rattle of maracas tuck around Sister’s throaty voice, transporting me to an island in my mind. In a new purple bikini, I lay on the beach watching palm trees dance with my family. Under an umbrella, we wiggle our toes as Sister’s voice serenades us. Rare moments like this feel like the old carefree days.
Flashing teeth, Sister says, “Class, now sing to me.” Sister conducts as we belt out the “Yellow Bird” lyrics. We sing with enthusiasm but fall way short of her mastery.
“Take it away, Sister Elizabeth” Geoffrey says.
Looking endlessly happy, Sister actually winks at him. Eyes closed, she sways and snaps her fingers as classmates lacking maracas clap to the beat of the lyrics. Judging by Sister’s voice, she has a heart.
No one can sing with such emotion without one.
“That’s it,” she says, with a clap of her hands. “The bell will ring in two minutes, and we need to return the maracas and straighten the desks.”
We applaud Sister for her unexpected performance. Times like this, I sort of like her—until I remind myself I can’t. I remind myself that three people eat dinner in my house instead of four. That Fs sit on my report card. Every time I do, sparks of anger poke through, reigniting a fire I refuse to let burn out.
The next day, a seminarian visits religion class. Brother Richard is a hardcore bore fest. Still, a few brown nosers ask questions to impress Sister. Brother Richard leaves midway through class, and our good conduct earns us more free time.
I held my tongue during his visit to keep the peace, but I was dying to ask: Why is Jesus always shown with white skin? When Malcolm was imprisoned, he pointed out to his chaplain that Jesus, as described in the Bible, was not white. Malcolm also said the Bible was used to justify slavery. Sister would have a heart attack for real if I bring any of that up.
Donna and other students get into a conversation with Sister Elizabeth, peppering her with questions about some of the changes that resulted from Vatican II, which we discussed earlier with Brother Richard. I am content to daydream, but Donna calls me over.
“We are called to engage with the modern world,” Sister says as I join the huddle. “There are competing perspectives on how best to do that. That’s one reason some nuns and priests speak out against the Vietnam War and,” she glances at me next to Donna, “support civil rights.”
“My grandmother says she preferred priests facing the altar during Mass instead of looking at church members,” Donna says.
Face aglow, Sister turns to me because she mistakenly thinks we’re friends. “I’m sure Roberta will have an interesting question or two.”
Daddy says you can say anything, it’s how you say it. There is something I’ve wanted to know for a while, so I went for it.
